Scott’s Revenge – Part 1

By PFC Pflege

I knew, generally, it was coming, but still I was totally unprepared for it when it happened. Scott’s revenge, I mean. He’s jumped me before, and made it stick – tying my hands before I know what’s going on, and then working me over. He loves jumping me, because I am taller and more solid than he is; and my arms and legs are very muscular. I love showing off my 17-inch biceps in tight t-shirts. Scott is a young, lithe, muscled wrestler, but if I ever lock him again in a bear hug, as I did once, all his wrestling skills are nothing, and he would, as he did, have to submit.  We have been doing stuff to each other for a number of years, all of it involving bondage in one form or the other.

Last time was Scott’s turn to get it, and he got it like this. I had him put on his wrestling singlet, smooth tight Lycra, and nothing else. The singlet showed off his muscles, his toned chest and abdomen, and his packed crotch. The singlet was tight, and I could see his big dick and his twin nuts outlined in the Lycra. As I tied his hands in front of him, I ground my knee gently into the package, feeling his cock hardening in the singlet. Then, I jerked his hands upwards, with a rope over a rafter. We were in my basement, which looked as if it were designed for bondage, with overhead rafters and pipes, and steel posts holding up the floor above. Lots of ways and places Scott could tie me, or I could tie him.

Scott, the hunky wrestler, barefoot, in his skin-tight singlet, was now strung up like a chicken, to the rafter. It was a submission scene, and he knew it. Scott would end up submitting to the Marine, the Marine with 17-inch “guns”, lording it over the wrestler. So Scott stood there, strung up to the rafter, while I gloated for a while. I was wearing my favorite outfit on those hot June nights: Speedos, and a tight t-shirt, with the sleeves cut off. Actually, it had been one of Scott’s t-shirts, with name of his school on it, and the word “WRESTLING” under the school’s name. I had stolen it from his place one time, cut off the sleeves, and wore it next time I saw him. I couldn’t decide whether a t-shirt, sleeveless, shows off my muscles better, or with the sleeves straining to cover my biceps. Don’t get the idea that my being a very strong, muscled Marine makes me cocky or anything.

I strutted around Scott, examining him with my eyes and my hands. I liked the feel of his body under the Lycra, the curve of his ass, the shifting muscle pack in his shoulders, the lean hard body. As I gloated in his face, he suddenly spat at me, and huge lunger of his spit hit me full in the face. In hot anger, I tied ropes to his feet, and pulled him apart, the way a man spreads a butterfly before pinning him. I tied the ropes off to the  posts, and looked at him. He was in pain, because, by spreading his legs, I had also pulled down on his arms, and the Vee of his legs was far too wide for any comfort. I didn’t care. I had Scott where I wanted him.

For the next hour or so, off and on, until my muscle-heavy arm got tired, I flogged Scott. I don’t mind saying I admired how much he could take. While I concentrated on his back and chest, I also did not neglect his legs and ass, and occasionally brought the flogger up between his legs. His cock remained hard, and jutted proudly out to his hip, encased in the skin-tight Lycra. I knew submission was part of his scene, but also I knew he had to work for it: I left broad red welts on his shoulders and legs which weren’t covered by the singlet. Without any compunction and without the slightest pity, I flogged my friend’s body until he screamed.

That was a couple of weeks ago, so, while I hadn’t forgotten that anytime Scott submitted, he would get back at me, I wasn’t prepared for his turning up that night. It was a Friday night, late in June, an incredibly soft warm night, where the air was so thick you could almost hold it in your hands. I had been slutting around all afternoon and evening, having taken off from work, and enjoying the warm, sweet air, and the packed feeling of my half erection in my tight Speedos. Again and again, I flexed my muscles before a mirror, enjoying how the thin cotton of the t-shirt strained over my shoulder muscles. It was the same t-shirt I had worn when I had flogged Scott. I liked it because it fit tightly, it had the word “WRESTLING” on it, and it was sleeveless. I was thinking that sleeveless showed off my “guns” better than sleeves. In other words, I was strutting, horny, smug, self-satisfied Marine, full of arrogance. What I got that night and the next morning was a lesson, not in humility, but in humiliation and degradation. My cock hardens even thinking of it, let alone going through.

We’ve all had nights like those, the nights where everything comes together in perfect timing, and when Scott’s mind and my mind were in sync, in some crazy way. We all remember that kind of night, because, no matter how hard you try, you can’t really duplicate it. It’s unique, and, while you have other exciting nights, this one stands out.

I am a heavy drinker, and, since I get up every day at 4:30am, I am usually out by 10:00pm., sometimes earlier. I don’t know when I went to bed that night, but I do remember the incredible soft warmth of the air, and I left all the outside doors, and the windows, open. The next thing I knew after I crawled in bed was being violently awakened, and finding that my wrists were handcuffed behind my back. Then, a sodden mass of cloth was jammed into my cursing mouth – I had awoken, saying stuff like “Who the fuck are you?” – and, quickly, rope tied the soggy mass into my mouth. At first, I thought the sogginess was urine, then I realized it was alcohol, vodka, actually. A damned effective way of keeping me docile. During the long night and day, Scott would lubricate the gag, liberally.

Nothing secures a man, nor defeats him, so easily as having his hands handcuffed behind his back. My big, 17-inch guns were useless against the simple steel mechanism of the handcuffs, and, even if I did have powerfully muscular legs, what good were they? I knew, without even seeing him, that my captor was Scott. I was face down in my bed, handcuffed and gagged, wearing the low-slung Speedos, which barely covered by now heavy erection, and the WRESTLING t-shirt., which clung to my chest and shoulder like a second skin. Already, because of the warm air, and Scott kneeling over me, and my first struggles against the handcuffs, I felt a pooling of sweat in the small of my back. I worked my mouth, gurgling, and thrust with my legs, and heaved my powerful body against the wrestler, who, kneeling over me, sat on my ass.

It didn’t take much time. At first, I resisted as I felt Scott bind my ankles together with rope, but his grab at my balls revised my strategy, and, in a few minutes, I lay hogtied on the bed, my dick rockhard, and, I bet, Scott’s, too. Suddenly, I was dumped on the floor, and dragged across the carpet to the stairs. Here I really began to heave and struggle, because I was afraid he was going to slide me down the stairs, face down. Todd had done that, once, very slowly, so as to catch my balls on each step. Scott didn’t do it slowly. Turning me around so I faced up the stairs, he shoved me over the landing, and down I went. There are ten steps on my stairway, and my balls, packed into the Speedos, caught every step. My big bull nuts, and my big cock, the pride of this arrogant Marine, were bruised and pounded in the few seconds it took for me to reach the floor below. There I writhed in agony, my balls screaming in pain. Scott told me later, that, as he walked down the stairs, he got a huge sexual rush from seeing me, hogtied, and writhing in obvious pain. He said he liked the fact that, because I was so arrogant, the pain derived from my balls being smashed by the stair steps.

Scott had parked his SUV down the street, and I lay there waiting, knowing he had done that, because I would have heard his car if he had driven it into my driveway. The night was that kind of night, where you could hear a snail clearing its throat a mile away.

When he came back, I knew he had long term plans. I was hooded, but I was also chained – a simple but effective method, over the shoulder, through the armpits, and padlocks at the wrists and the ankles. It supplemented the rope he had used to hogtie my ankles to the handcuffs. I was dragged across the floor, and outside to the driveway. I could feel the linoleum of the kitchen, the cool brick of the patio, the rough gravelly texture of the asphalt. He grunted as he lifted me, and loaded me, into the SUV. Then we were moving.

I explored my situation, and found nothing to help. The rope which had hogtied me was loose, but so what? Scott had chained me now, and I wasn’t breaking chain. My balls, earlier screaming in pain, had subsided, and I felt a growing erection in my bruised cock, as I tested my muscles, of which I was so arrogant, against the handcuffs and the steel chain. They were unforgiving, cold, and relentless.

We drove for quite a while, and I guess (correctly, as it turned out) we were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, because we slowed in an area which was well lit – lights streaming into the SUV, which were visible in a  blur even through the latex of the hood. I had guessed they were toll booths. Finally, we arrived somewhere, and Scott stopped his vehicle. He was gone quite a while, but came back. I lay in the van inert, scared, half drunk, but sexually excited. It turned out later that we were at the motor lodge in Lansdale, just off the Northeast extension of the Turnpike.

When he came back, he opened the doors of the van, and quickly dumped me onto a blanket to drag me into the room. I lay on the blanket as he closed the motel room door, and removed my hood. Rolling me on my side, he chugged vodka into my gag, watching me swallow and choke it, then poured more. I lay there, a hogtied animal, with fresh vodka in my belly, and my face in a disgusting carpet. I looked around, bleary, and saw a tartan pattern in the carpet and the beds, a cheap TV, some truly hideous wall paper, and a general look of dingy, transient, quick-sex motel room. The carpet was dusty and dirty, and Scott ground my face into it, pushing my head down with his foot on my neck. It became clear very quickly, though, that he had other plans.

Foolishly, a few months before, I had sent Scott a web address for a wrestling story, called “Greg’s Defeat.”

This story is sexually very arousing, having to do with two young guys wrestling, and one of them gets tied up, and has his muscles destroyed by the other until he totally submits. The hero, Greg, is proud of his muscles, even arrogant, but gets whipped by his buddy. Scott must have enjoyed the story, because he began doing the same thing to me.

 

Copyright 2006-2017 Marine Punk and BBH Ltd. All rights Reserved.

This story was sent by Master Jack of the Bondagezine site, and it is used here with permission.

 

 

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